Dirge
by Victoria Bitter
Summary: The destiny of the great is often in the hands of the humble.


Disclaimer: Hobbits, Elves, Maia, and all the things therein belong to a very imaginative dead Englishman. This story is mine.  
  
Summary: The destiny of the great often lies in the grasp of the humble.  
  
Author's notes: Book canon in set-up, entirely extrapolation and whispering possibilities in the substance of Elrond and Gandalf's discussion. Translation information for the Elvish to be found at the end.  
  
***  
  
No breeze stirred discord in the night air, no bird trilled alarm nor footfall sounded on stone, but still the Elf Lord turned, nodding his head to the familiar figure that stepped from the shadows. To the mortal eye, it was an old man, gray and grizzled and heavily bearded, but he knew the truth of this being, and he knew the extraordinary circumstances of his arrival. They were always extraordinary circumstances lately. Elrond turned his gaze back to Rivendell's mottled gilt of moonlight and candlelight outside his balcony, pushing away the sharp sting of nostalgia for the days when visitors bode only pleasant company.  
  
His eye fell on the warm glow of a candlelit room where keen eyes could clearly see a figure far too small and round for any Elf, bent low and attentive over a bed. His visitor, he knew, would be looking at that same window. "There is much about these Periannath you failed to tell me."  
  
There was a gruff sound of disapproval, but Elrond ignored it, long accustomed to the wizard's ways. "An odd greeting for an old friend."  
  
"These are odd times. Three days ago, Glorfindle arrived at the Ford of Bruinen, pursued by the Nine. He brought your Ring-Bearer, wounded deep by a Morgul Blade. For sixteen days he has lived, and with, I do suspect, a fragment of it within his flesh, worming its way nearer his heart. Such a wound should have killed Aragorn himself, far less this little creature of peace and comfort." He knew not how much of this Mithrandir already knew, though he suspected most. Still, it needed the saying, both for the sake of courtesy and curiosity. Perhaps, if Mithrandir was forthcoming, the true mysteries need not be inquired after at all.  
  
"There is a strength to them, a resiliency…"  
  
Elrond felt the faintest of smiles creep over the edge of his mouth. "And a most remarkable luck in companionship."  
  
"Then the others have arrived…Meriadoc Brandybuck, and little Peregrin Took as well. I sensed that they had bound themselves to the quest even from within the walls of Isengard. Their love is strong." Despite the surity of his words, Elrond saw that Mithrandil's hand had relaxed upon the railing when he heard the news.  
  
Was it possible that he was hiding the third little one, in hope, perhaps, that Elrond had not already seen his secret? His voice was as cool as the autumn breeze as he spoke. "You forget one other. Surely if you could see the filial loves of such hearts as Brandybuck and Took possess, you must have been near blinded by Gamgee. Even to the eyes of one half-Elven, there is a light there greater than I had thought possible for one of his kind."  
  
Mithrandil paused a moment, then his head bowed almost imperceptibly, as though some great weight had been laid upon him. "He has a gift."  
  
"It is a danger, Mithrandir. A danger that should never have left the Shire. I have spoken with him…"  
  
The wizard's head snapped up, his features suddenly galvanized with urgency as his eyes sparked something too nearly like fear. "Elrond, the ways of the Periannath are simple - he cannot be allowed to know!"  
  
Startled, Elrond raised a hand. His intuition would seem to have been correct about that young one, but clearly he had touched into something deeper still. "Do not worry, my friend, I have been careful. But you are right. He calls himself a mere gardener, and a rather tryingly modest one at that. His concern for his Master was such that he would speak of little else. It was the product of more than an hour to hear him confess that he can pull lush fruit from ground others deem barren, that he nurtures fledgling birds and orphaned rabbits that would seem too fragile for life. He calls it patience, hobbit-sense."  
  
Satisfied, Mithrandir nodded slightly, turning his eyes to the distant window again. "Better that he should."  
  
For a moment, there was no sound but the soft roar of the waterfall beyond the city, then Elrond allowed himself to at last voice the thought that had played at him ever since the Periannath had entered his city, bringing with him an inner light unseen to the eyes of his own kind or of men, but clear and bright to any immortal gaze. "Is there Faerie in his line?"  
  
"No. Such blood lies only in young Peregrin, faint as it is with the generations."  
  
He thought of the littlest one, fished only that morning from the fountain in the middle courtyard, and nodded. That Faerie strain was perhaps not as thin as one might hope. "I may have guessed."  
  
"Samwise was born on the Elvish New Year."  
  
Elrond's eyes widened slightly with the news, suddenly looking with new respect on the little one sitting so quiet and devoted at his Master's side. Even at such distance, the light about him was clear, and it seemed to spill over onto the injured Ring-Bearer, soothing over him as unseen, healing hands. "Then Elbereth looked with wisdom upon the Shire that year. She knew that one such as he would be needed."  
  
"He will be needed still."  
  
He had spoken to no one of his thoughts, yet to hear them echoed by the wizard did not startle him. It was a destiny written in the secret whispers of the stars, and it was there to read clear enough for those few who knew. "You see then, as I do, that Frodo Baggins has not yet reached the end of his burden."  
  
"If Frodo goes on, Samwise must go as well."  
  
Within the sick room, as if knowing that they spoke of him, Gamgee rose, crossing to the window and falling against the sill, his head pillowed on weary arms. They both knew that he did not rest, and Elrond could sense his despair like the unwelcome scent of decay wafting through a pleasant garden. His spirit reached out, almost upon reflex, seeking to comfort, but at the first ethereal touch, Gamgee's head snapped up, his eyes wide and startled as he looked about. Feeling Mithrandil's gaze on him, Elrond turned and strode smoothly back into his chambers. The little one was more sensitive than he had ever expected.  
  
He did not wait for Mithrandil to follow, yet he knew without turning that the wizard was there."We cannot allow it. It is too dangerous. He would be as a beacon to the Enemy…even after the affair at Weathertop, the very power that kept his Master alive kept the Nine close on their trail."  
  
"Not if he does not know, does not employ his gift. Even the Ring itself is powerless unless used."  
  
Elrond thought again of Gamgee's reaction to that faintest of mind-touches and shook his head. "No untrained gift that strong can be entirely dampered, and we cannot risk to train him…not without altering all that he believes himself to be."  
  
"It comes tied to a great love, Elrond, and that is a power all its own."  
  
"And a curse." Elrond paused, his features softening as his hands spread in gentle supplication. "You have not been here these past days, Mithrandir. He suffers greatly at his Master's illness, and I would venture to say that Frodo's survival is due to young Gamgee clinging to his soul with the powerful surety of his own heart's death. The Ring destroys those who bear it. I have even seen such destruction in Bilbo, kind and true though he may have remained for the better part, but any Bearer who would do what we must ask…"  
  
"He could never do it alone."  
  
"No. And none but one truly innocent of the Ring could resist its fell pull."  
  
"Then it must be a Periannath, but why protest the choice Samwise himself would make?"  
  
"As I have said, his cost would be too great. We should send Brandybuck. His love, through bond of blood, is true enough; he is strong, quick of hand and wit, and his bravery is, from what Aragorn tells, as great as any of their kind. Gamgee should return to the Shire with the Took lad…by pain of youth and love, neither is suited for the darkness that lies ahead."  
  
For a moment, Mithrandir had seemed almost to consider it, but then the determination settled anew into his cragged features. "Neither will be stopped. I have spent many years at Shire hearths, Elrond, and I know something of their mettle that you do not understand. We can not so simply turn them back from this path."  
  
"Yet you so simply turned them to it."  
  
The words, so quietly stated, stilled the wizard for a long moment, and when he spoke again, much of the boldness had faded from his voice, replaced with a deep loss that surprised the Elf coming from such a being. "They came entirely of their own accord, I know they have told you as much."  
  
"So they have, but I have learned, in my years, to be suspicious of fortune. That a humble gardener, bound hand and heart to the soil of his home, should find himself at the perfect window at the perfect moment to match himself to a quest in which a gift he did not even know he possessed proved the defining force of endurance…that is a great fortune indeed, and when one of the Secret Fire is considered as well, I cease to believe in fortune at all."  
  
"I would never force anyone to undertake such a perilous quest, no matter how useful they may be."  
  
"But you might assist."  
  
Mithrandil seemed suddenly old, leaning more heavily on his staff as he spoke. In his eyes, Elrond could see the shadows of terrible things yet to come, some that had haunted his own dreams, and others that yet seemed beyond the realm of nightmares. "Samwise was born to this. I suspected that, as you did, from the moment I saw him, but when I learned more of him: the day of his birth, his unseemly fascination with the ways of the Elves, his touch of growth and healing with all things living, the purity of his love for the heir to the Ring…the truth was clear. Young Gamgee was blessed by Elbereth herself, yet I could not simply order that he go, and I knew Frodo would refuse to take even his most faithful companions of his own free will."  
  
A gasp slipped from Elrond's lips. Surely, for all his clear love of the Periannath, he couldn't have offered such an innocent the choice outright! "You did not ask - Mithrandir, he could not understand the peril."  
  
"No, I did not ask him. I did nothing more than turn the breezes to float a few words to his ears as he worked the gardens…Elves…Bilbo…mountains. None that he had not heard before in the stories of childhood, none that he could not easily ignore if his soul felt no call to them." A heavy sigh ruffled through the gray beard. "But it did, and it was his choice to follow that call to the window, and from there, his own gracelessness allowed his discovery and the removal of Frodo's dilemma of desiring to take on such a task alone. I must admit, though, it was a surprise to us all when he enlisted the others in this conspiracy of brotherhood."  
  
Elrond smiled in quiet amazement. "Remarkable little creatures. It is hard to believe that such courage and love could secret itself away from story and song."  
  
"It is how they like it."  
  
"Perhaps."  
  
Silence fell again, even the sound of the waterfall muffled by the elegant walls of Elrond's chamber, but he still saw Gamgee's face clear in the eye of his heart as the gardener left the window, returning resolutely to his post to sponge the sweat from his Master's brow, one brown, work-roughened hand clutching firm to one as cold and fragile as ice. He knew that Mithrandil saw the same thing, and the wizard shook his head at the shared sight of sorrow in the little one's face, the dark circles under his eyes and the fading of the once-ruddy cheeks. "He turns pale."  
  
"He has neither eaten nor slept since he came here - indeed, Aragorn claims hardly since his Master took the wound. I have managed twice to cajole him into a walk to try and scatter his thoughts, his tears, but he is alarmingly stubborn, and quite literal minded when he decides to be. The first time I ordered him to a turn about the garden, he took a step outside, turned round, and was in again."  
  
A laugh trickled from them both, thin but welcome, and Mithrandir smiled fondly. "Oh dear." The Elf almost envied him a moment, unable to coax his own smile to linger long, but then he saw the wizard's face also fade into quiet sorrow. "They should never have been caught up in such Evil. I fear for them, for their race. Sauron has glimpsed the Shire, and such happiness cannot sit long in his tolerance."  
  
"Things are -" He stopped, suddenly, his ears catching the faint lilt of music across the courtyard. " - hush. Do you hear?"  
  
The tune had once been impossibly complex and elegant, rich with harmonies as subtle as the sighing of the wind and light with notes as sweet as birdsong, and now it had been changed to a simple melody tucked within the comfortable and untrained range of a gardener and a friend; yet to Elrond's amazement, the majesty still held true. It floated gentle upon the wind, the pronunciation occasionally stumbled, the rhythm at times unsure, but there was such emotion woven thick within that the grace seemed almost heightened by the roughness.  
  
"Si vanwa na, Romello vanwa, Valimar!  
  
Namarie! Nai hiruvalye Valimar.  
  
Nai elye hiruva. Namarie!"  
  
"Does he know?" Elrond's eyes were closed, his own voice thick as he fought to contain the tears that pulled unexpected at his soul.  
  
Mithrandil's voice was soft and not himself unmoved. "His Elvish is the stuff of fumbled greetings, half-remembered nursery rhymes, and the names of a dozen flowers. Doubtless he heard it from the harps of your bards, and he hears only a lullaby in the melody. Let him sing it: it brings him comfort."  
  
"He finds his comfort in the dirge of my people. It is a black thing."  
  
"Is it a black thing that such a heart should turn words of lament into murmurs of love?"  
  
The Elf Lord's eyes opened, and through the blur of his own unshed tears, he understood the truth of the world about to unfold helplessly before him, the last days of his ageless people finally come to hand in these little, fragile creatures of such unspoken grandeur. He was tempted to hate them for it, for bringing the day he had always understood so calmly, but he found that his only true wish was to weep for them, for he knew that they would pay for the Age of Man with the blood of their own innocence.  
  
A single tear slipped silver from one wise gray eye, humbly matched by a salt gem sliding down a plump and wearied cheek to land bright on an icy hand. "No, my friend. It is a black thing that such a heart should ever come to know their meaning."  
  
The End  
  
***  
  
NOTES:  
  
Mithrandir: Elvish name for Gandalf the Grey  
  
Periannath: Elvish word for Hobbit or Halfling  
  
Si vanwa na, Romello vanwa, Valimar!  
  
Namarie! Nai hiruvalye Valimar.  
  
Nai elye hiruva. Namarie!:  
  
The latter portion of a high Elvish lament for the passing of the Third Age, sung by Galadriel as the Fellowship leaves Lothlorien, but not specifically attributed to her. It means:  
  
"Now lost, lost to those in the East is Valimar!  
  
Farewell! Maybe thou shalt find Valimar!  
  
Maybe even thou shalt find it. Farewell!" 


End file.
